


a tornado or a hurricane

by vamoosi



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gentleness, M/M, Role Reversal, Rough Sex, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 17:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8498752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamoosi/pseuds/vamoosi
Summary: They are creatures of habit, Cybertronians, as much as any other sentient species, and they develop routines sometimes without even realizing it. Cycles and repetition. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Of course, Brainstorm loves little more than to improve on unbroken things, and to make break them a little in the process just so he can fit them into new forms. Brainstorm asks to top Whirl. Whirl says sure, pal, why not.





	

It’s not their first time – Primus, of course not – they’ve been fooling around for ages now, since Whirl picked up one of Brainstorm’s new weapon projects and went “bet this would be great to stick up your valve, huh?” in this almost dismissive kind of way, like, duh, of course you’ve done that. They’re way past their first time after that, since nobody’d turn down a mech who gets them on _that_ kind of level. Strut-deep, spark-deep. Like, one time, Brainstorm helplessly babbled something about the firing mechanism in one of the guns he’d made right when Whirl was buried up in him and Whirl went and _overloaded._

“Nobody’s ever come cause I’ve talked about guns,” he’d mumbled in the singing afterglow. Whirl snorted something about introducing him to some guys. Brainstorm thought briefly about how nobody had ever come with him for maybe a million and a half years, and how that was very completely unimportant in the moment.

So: not the first, at all, per se. Inasmuch as it’s not the beginning of any new thing, and inasmuch as it’s happening in the middle of an established thing. On the other hand.

They are creatures of habit, Cybertronians, as much as any other sentient species, and they develop routines sometimes without even realizing it. Cycles and repetition. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Of course, Brainstorm loves little more than to improve on unbroken things, and to make break them a little in the process just so he can fit them into new forms.

It’s what he does. He can’t help it. The urge to upgrade and to change itches at the inside of his frame.

“Not that I’ve found a single thing worth complaining about so far,” he’d said just days ago, again in a golden-bloomed haze, sprawled on the floor (it fit them both better than any bed), “but what if we tried something different?”

And Whirl had picked his head up and narrowed the light of his optic, going, “what, right now? Damn, you’re needier than I thought.”

And Brainstorm had pronounced him the worst, the very worstest, he could have had something super important to say and Whirl would have just laughed it off and Whirl went yep, that’s all true and Brainstorm laughed and elbowed Whirl in the arm. And then gone, “but no, seriously, next time. Different. Maybe?”

“You wanna get your hands on the leash,” Whirl’d said. Good-natured, yeah, but the wording of it had made Brainstorm pause, tip his head like he was looking at a problem from a new angle.

“No leashes,” he’d answered. “Unless that’s your secret fetish. But, you know, we’ve had a good run of, what’s a delicate way to put it –”

“Of me wrecking your valve with my enormous cock?”

“Pure poetry,” Brainstorm had agreed. “Yeah, that. I just figured, may as well switch it up. If that’s good by you.”

It kind of surprised him that Whirl just shrugged in a staggered, uneven movement. “Sure, why not? If I hate it, I’ll just punch you. We’ll give it the old college try.”

Sometimes Whirl said very fancy-sounding things but Brainstorm had no idea what they meant, but if he asked Whirl would scoff and be like you mean you haven’t consumed _this_ obscure piece of classical Earth media, so Brainstorm just didn’t ask anymore.

Anyway.

That was the then. This is the now. The now where they’ve got themselves in Brainstorm’s room, the same one where he has a locked stash of his favorite guns, the one where he’s gotten his brains fucked out by Whirl a dozen times by now. But now Whirl’s looking at him all curious, and he’s all full up with a nervous shivering energy. Excited nervous. Totally ready nervous.

“Is this gonna be one of those ‘please, sir’ things?” Whirl says. “Because I’m gonna tell you right away, I don’t do that scrap.”

“No, ew, no.” Brainstorm waves a hand like he wants to swat the very idea out of the air. “Mostly I just want to take a little bit of control. Well, that, and…”

“Load your bullet in my barrel,” Whirl finishes, clicking a flourish with one set of claws. Brainstorm presses a hand over his spark; be still, o life force of his.

“And they call me a genius,” he sighs dramatically. It’s easy, this kind of back-and-forth, this silly lead up. This pseudo-casual conversation when they’re about to pop their panels for one another. “But yeah, no, no 'sirs’ or anything. Might ask you to do a couple things, though.”

Again, Whirl shrugs; again it’s a wave, a sine function, one shoulder rising and then the other in its place. “Might as well. Don’t got anything better to do today.”

Some part of Brainstorm’s flight engines hums a contented purr. He claps his hands together, then gestures at the bed. (He’s built onto it, made it wider and longer, just for the purpose of supporting Whirl. Who is really rather massive. It’s a thing he enjoys thinking about.)

Whirl leans back, or really actually flops back with a graceless thud, arms going up to pillow behind his head in a practiced kind of nonchalance. He only peeks up at Brainstorm to watch him, expecting Brainstorm to climb up after him with the light step of a flyer, but Brainstorm doesn’t. He turns, even, away from the berth, across the room where he grabs a rolling chair from his desk and pushes it up next to the bed. When he sits, he props his elbows up on the surface of the bed, his chin up on the heels of his hands.

“I think you’re going to hate this,” he says. Decisively, gleefully. “In a completely awesome way, mind, but you’re really totally gonna hate it. I’m pretty excited. Still, you know, I’ll stop whenever you want me to. I feel like you’re probably going to yell at me a lot during this whole thing, though, so maybe we oughta have a safeword or something? Just so my brilliant mind can differentiate between an exasperated kind of 'stop it’ and a for real kind of 'stop it.’”

He’s babbling a little bit. It’s the same way he does when something scientific becomes something magical.

“Not gonna need one,” Whirl says, because of course he does. And of course Brainstorm makes a show of rolling his optics.

“Don’t make me come up with one for you,” he threatens. “I’ll do something really embarrassing, like – like 'I love Ultra Magnus’ or something – even though that’s really long –”

“He’s _so big,_ ” Whirl protests in a whine, but he seems to give in. “Fine. Fine! Word is – the word is 'grandfather.’ That good enough?”

Brainstorm notes that down to look up later. “Excellent! Now, we can begin.”

It doesn’t begin in a rush.

Brainstorm loves to rush. He loves to move things along, skip those lengthy lectures Perceptor always seems to have prepared, hates those million-year-long words and explanations. The ages of testing and experimentation that Kimia liked to pretend was scripture written by Primus himself always made him want to tear his own optics out of his head. He never minded a few explosions here and there.

This is a little bit different from those kinds of experiments. The pace here is the process. Some things must be allowed to sit and absorb and react.

Brainstorm starts only by reaching out one hand and brushing it over the plating of Whirl’s thigh. Whirl watches it with a beautiful kind of precision, the light of his optic flicking the tiny amount to track Brainstorm’s hand as it moves from knee to flank and back. Over, over, time and again, their metal smooth enough against each other not to catch and cause undue friction, Brainstorm’s fingers sometimes walking up the path, sometimes sliding over the curves. Whirl has the most interesting, beautiful, delicate legs, thin and carefully-built, artwork all folded up.

Brainstorm lets his palm drape over the slow curve of the thigh. His fingers only barely brush against the inside seam. Whirl’s optic is so narrow that it’s a tiny slit of skeptical light, shifting forth and back like he’s expecting at any moment that Brainstorm will do something wild. Brainstorm only lets his fingers trail further up, over the overlapping and delicate plates of Whirl’s middle.

“Is this supposed to be getting me off,” Whirl says, and Brainstorm just shushes him.

He just. He knows some things. Quite a few, actually. Like, he knows the way that Whirl takes him, all true to his name, hard and intense and fast. It leaves his head spinning and he loves it, eats it right up, daydreams about it sometimes. Brainstorm’s been sore more often than he has in millenia and it’s incredible. On the other hand, he knows that means going slow like this – where his fingers slide real careful and easy up the length of one of Whirl’s guns, trace the inner edge of the opening – that’s not something Whirl does.

If you keep something in the dark for ages it becomes real sensitive to the light. That’s all Brainstorm’s saying.

Brainstorm dips a couple fingers into the barrel of Whirl’s gun and hears ventilations catch, the first spin of fans. It’s hard, yeah, not to just lean up and pull his mouthplate off and get his lips around those, but he’s got a _thing_ planned, after all. He can manage.

“You know, I’ve totally wondered if I could get one of these in me,” he says idly, and Whirl jerks a little, hissing.

“What the _fuck,_ ” Whirl whispers, but in a good way.

Brainstorm carries on. He spreads his hand out against the underside of Whirl’s cockpit, where things are a little more exposed and delicate, where his fingers can tangle up a bit in open framework and wiring. He pets up and over the glass, careful not to scratch. He drags his hand all the way back down to Whirl’s knee, following the outer line of transformation seams, thumb pressed up against that to make Whirl give the tiniest sort of shudder.

“This is the worst lay I’ve ever had,” Whirl insists, but he sounds hypnotized. Rapt.

“I can stop,” Brainstorm offers, tapping his thumb against the seam where it follows Whirl’s thigh, tapping his fingers against the one along the inside.

“S'fine,” Whirl mumbles.

Whirl’s a puzzle. Well, no; too many people look at Whirl like a problem, a thing to be fixed or solved, and there’s nothing that needs fixing or solving about Whirl. He makes perfect sense for the worlds he’s lived in. Whirl is a beautiful example of mathematics and chemistry, an equation, something that has both sides filled in and clear and maybe takes a while to understand but when the numbers all click into place the whole of it rings out in perfect pitch tones. Whirl doesn’t make Brainstorm want to take him apart. Whirl has Brainstorm wanting to give him more and offer him variables and see the ways that Whirl twists them up.

The variables are slow, careful, light. Gentle. Brainstorm passes his hand over the narrow width of Whirl’s pelvis and feels it rock up by degrees. He draws tight circles with his fingertips low on Whirl’s abdomen. One of Whirl’s arms pulls away from behind his head so he can try and push at Brainstorm’s hand, get it somewhere that’ll take this little romp on the path it’s supposed to go, but Brainstorm resists, takes his hand off Whirl entirely.

“What the fuck,” Whirl says again.

“I forgot to say,” Brainstorm says. “No touching.”

Whirl grates out this long, irritated noise that’s more mechanical than vocal, but he puts his arm back down. Brainstorm beams behind his mask. Whirl answers that with another rough sound.

Of course, when Brainstorm presses the heel of his hand down between Whirl’s legs with a calculated kind of motion, the noise Whirl makes isn’t a growl at all.

Brainstorm just keeps his hand like that a while. He doesn’t move it, not except for wave-like rocking motions, the pressure shifting between the top and the base of his palm, low and high against Whirl’s closed panels. Whirl’s fans make a frustrated wheeze of surrender and kick up a notch; one of his legs kicks with impatience. Brainstorm finds himself laughing a little bit at all of it.

“This sucks,” Whirl bites out at him. He shifts his hips but Brainstorm’s hand stays firmly where it is, pinning his panels closed. “You suck. This sucks. What the hell is this.”

“Told you that you’d hate it.” But he doesn’t, of course. Which Brainstorm predicted as well. Brainstorm adds a drag of his fingertips and Whirl’s head leans back with the very lowest keening whine.

“So,” Brainstorm says after maybe two minutes of that. In the urgent, trembling quiet, it felt like half an hour. “I’m going to take my hand off you soon, and you can open up and all but still no touching, remember? Or else nada from me.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Whirl says. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Aw,” Brainstorm says. He peels his hand off Whirl incrementally, joint by joint, and as soon as that pressure’s up off of his panels Whirl snaps them open. His spike comes out thick and stiff. His valve drips lubricant down onto the berth. Brainstorm allows himself a few moments to admire the growing puddle, swiping a finger through it like to make sure it’s there.

“I thought you said you were gonna fuck me,” Whirl starts saying, but it’s about then that Brainstorm wraps his hand around Whirl’s spike and he does it so that it’s firm hot pressure all the way around and the noise Whirl makes is indescribable, Brainstorm can’t put a name to it, it’s long and open and it shoots electric down Brainstorm’s spine to pool right between his thighs.

“I am 100% absolutely going to do that,” he says. “Like, definitely. You just gotta hold on a little bit longer.”

“I’m going to overload before you get to it just to spite you.” Whirl’s head thuds back down against the berth, turning so he can see Brainstorm that way, without craning to look over his own chest. “And then pass out right away and you won’t be able to do it at all.”

“No, you won’t,” Brainstorm says. He squeezes his hand around Whirl’s spike, a flex from bottom to top, and Whirl’s voice strangles into pops of static. His touch is still careful but it’s not light, anymore, not a little bit, heavy pressure through every inch of it. There’s a tremor through Whirl’s struts. Brainstorm drags his hand up Whirl’s spike and it hooks a disbelieving sound out of Whirl’s vocalizer.

“What is this,” Whirl spits out when he can. “What the hell is this, all slow and – and fucking lovey – is this your kink? Do you have a fucking romance kink, Stormy? You do, don’t you, you piece of shit –” here Brainstorm twists his wrists and Whirl has to suck in a howl that obviously threatens to burst out of him – “you have a romance _fetish_ , you sick fuck, well, you know what’s romantic to me? You know what’d be real romantic right about now? You fragging me right through the berth until I scream, that’s what would be – fffuck!” A pull, Brainstorm’s hand close up to the tip of Whirl’s spike, thumb pressing down on the top of it. It almost threatens on too much pressure.

“You,” Brainstorm says, ignoring that his own voice is shaking, “are really, really cute.”

He switches hands.

He switches hands so that he can finally get himself up onto the berth, ignoring Whirl’s little crow of victory, nudging his way in between Whirl’s knees. Brainstorm folds his own legs up under him and adjusts one of Whirl’s to rest against his hip so he has the leverage. His hand is still so tight on Whirl’s spike. His own panels are open. They’ve been open for – for Primus knows how long, now, maybe even before Whirl opened his.

“D'you really hate it?” he asks, voice blurring with static. Whirl props himself up on his elbows so he can fix Brainstorm with an empty stare.

“I hate it, and you, more than anything else in my miserable life,” he says.

“Mmkay,” Brainstorm answers, because that’s about as far as his communciation skills can go right now, and he fumbles to get his other hand around his own spike and when he gets it, oh, when he gets it, he shoves right into Whirl, a slick and sudden movement, all the way in. It shocks Whirl’s arms out from under him and he drops back with a heavy sound but he’s hissing “fuck, finally!” at the same time so it can’t be so bad.

Definitely not so bad at all.

The thing now is keeping his hand tight around Whirl, not letting it shift, keeping that lifeline, that anchor, he’s not sure why he has to do it but he has to. Brainstorm hitches Whirl’s leg onto his hip as best he can (Whirl is so big and heavy and he’s never been strong, he’s never had the build for lifting things) and slams his hips up against Whirl’s with enough force that there’s a screech, metal on metal. The height difference and the build of Whirl makes this a kind of an awful angle for seeing one another but Brainstorm can still see Whirl bracing a claw up against the wall behind him. Can still definitely hear him going “yeah, yeah, c'mon, you little shit, yeah.” He can imagine it well enough.

Brainstorm sets a pace that’s fast and heavy and awful, brutal compared to the leisure of earlier. The blinding contrast makes it that much more intense. Whirl is just unthinkably wet around his spike, opening up for him easier than Brainstorm could have predicted, and he did a very  healthy amount of fantasizing about this. This moment: pressing into Whirl, into the heat of him, having one of those long gorgeous legs wrapping up around him to kick at his aft like to push him along even faster. Brainstorm leans forward until his head’s resting against the front of Whirl’s cockpit and if he turns he can nuzzle against one of the guns that are nestled in there. He never took his damn mouthplate off. He’s not about to waste time with it now.

He lets it soak in, even if he’s not taking it slow anymore. Whirl’s choking out swears and encouragement and insults and pure helpless noise, punched-out and eager. Brainstorm can hear himself moaning high over the combined rush of their cooling fans and desperate engines. His hand’s still caught tight around Whirl’s spike and it’s jerking, twitching in his grip. His hips piston against Whirl’s. He gave the equation slow care and it gave him trembling. He gives it overwhelming intensity.

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck, I gotta,” Whirl’s babbling, claws scraping at the wall, “fuck, move your fff _ucking_ hand, I gotta overload right now I’m gonna die –”

“Not yet,” Brainstorm forces out, “not yet, almost, not yet.”

Whirl is going to hate him. Whirl has to hate him now. Whirl groans defeat and desire and clenches down hard around him and it throws Brainstorm’s rhythm careening off a cliff somewhere. His semi-steady motions go wilder, wanton. Not to suggest they weren’t already.

“Almost, almost almost,” he keeps saying, like it’ll help. He just needs, he just needs a little –

He feels it, bare terrible heat right at the base of his spinal strut, and before it can burst outward he snaps his hand away from Whirl’s spike. It’s within the next two rough crashes of his hips that Whirl yowls and twists and comes, valve going vice-tight around Brainstorm’s spike, stealing all the remaining cool air out of his systems. He can hear Whirl kicking his heels down against the berth.

“Oh, fuck,” Brainstorm says in a voice that seems distant to himself, and he braces his forehead against Whirl’s cockpit and lets overload drag him under, too, swirling and thundering, a blaze of sensation. His now-empty hand claws at Whirl’s hip and he can feel it leave marks. His limbs are shaking.

They’re shaking when he starts to come down from it, still with his face up against Whirl’s chest and his hips up against Whirl’s hips. Their fans are straining to accommodate for all the heat in the room. There’s the scraping noise of Whirl’s claw against the wall. There’s the gentle clicking of his optic readjusting to the light.

They sit in the quiet a minute, grasping uselessly at cool air.

Whirl breaks the silence, naturally. He goes: “what,” and then pauses, and then finishes, “the fuck.”

“Yep,” Brainstorm says for lack of better words. “Yep.”

“That was fucking terrible.”

“Uh-huh,” Brainstorm says. He thinks, maybe, if he sits like this much longer his forehead will dent with the shapes of Whirl’s cockpit and that’ll be awful to try and explain to Ratchet.

“I hated it. I hated every goddamn minute of that.”

Brainstorm picks himself up, trying to peer over the rise of Whirl’s chest. Whirl himself doesn’t help, makes no effort to sit up or anything, and Brainstorm can’t fully blame him. It feels a monumental feat to even straighten up.

“It was fucking incredible,” Whirl announces, and one of his arms snakes out to drag Brainstorm down flat to the berth so Whirl can engage a well-deserved if awkwardly-position cuddle session for the ages. “How the hell did you know that would even work?”

“Ship’s genius,” Brainstorm says. His wing is jutting up over one of Whirl’s. He’s too hot to be up this close to someone right now. He’s not gonna move even a centimeter.

“Amazing,” Whirl says. He sounds truly amazed. His hips keep twitching up every few moments as though he can’t keep them from doing it, which gives Brainstorm a certain amount of pride. “But let’s skip to the second part from now on, cause I might actually kill you if you do it again.”

“Agreed,” Brainstorm says. His HUD blips out that it’s had quite enough of all this, then, and he drifts out into a blissful reboot.


End file.
